


Dance for Me

by kitsunesongs



Category: Naruto, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M, Morgoth!Madara, Sauron!Izuna, Silm!Fusion, Silmarillion Fusion, Tobirama's dancing brings all the boys to the yard, eldritch-tree version of UNgoliant-Tom Bombadil!Hashirama, half Valar!Goldberry!Tobirama
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-03
Updated: 2019-08-06
Packaged: 2020-07-30 04:04:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20090995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitsunesongs/pseuds/kitsunesongs
Summary: Silmarillion Fusion with Eldritch!Bombadil!Hashirama, Half-Maia!Goldberry!Tobirama and Morgoth!Madara and Sauron!Izuna, based of comment threads with Alasse_M and some of her artwork.





	1. The Beginning

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Alasse_m](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alasse_m/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Collection of NSFW Tobirama-centric fanart](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19230757) by [Alasse_m](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alasse_m/pseuds/Alasse_m). 

The elves woke, and Ulmo walked among them. The cowered from him, the first born, with his hair like shimmering sea foam – all except one. She looked on him without fear, did the one called Kaguya, with her silver hair and white eyes, and talked with him. Ulmo showed her the waters of his domain, his underwater palace, the sea creatures that came at his bidding, and she laughed and danced amongst the waves.

In time, she fell pregnant.

The stories told of Luthien, child of a Maia and an Elf, and of her power – but Luthien was born from her Maia mother. A child of a valar is too much, even for one of the first born.

The child was born amidst a storm, as Ulmo mourned his loss, for as her baby drew his first breaths, Kaguya’s fea departed from her body, and went to the halls of Mandos, where even Ulmo could not step without permission. Ulmo, grief stricken, turned his gaze away from the child, a small pale baby with silvery-white hair and bright red eyes, not even naming him.

The boy grew up amongst the coastlines, swimming in the deep blue depths of his father’s domain. Though Ulmo couldn’t bare to look at him, he knew that it was not his son’s fault that he had been born, so he sent Osse and Uinen to care for him. Osse taught the child of battle, of rage and power, of the crash of waves against the sure and the crash of thunder in the storm. Uinen, kinder and gentler, taught him of patience, of kindness and compassion, of the different species that inhabited the waters of the world – and of the sinuous ripple of water as it coursed along in its banks, ceaselessly wearing down even stone. She taught him to sing songs of power, and how to hear the song of creation, the great music that made up Arda.

No one taught him how to dance. He did that himself.

The first born cowered away from the child as they had done from his father, so the child wondered away from them, following the paths of the streams and rivers, singing with the creatures of the seas and land and sky, and dancing on the waves, water rising at his call and flowing around him as he laughed.

From the edge of the forest, a being watched him, and fell in love.

The one called Hashirama (he had taken the name for himself, and rather liked it) was similar to the Ainur in some ways, and very different in others, for in truth he was an outsider to Arda, just as they were. He had seen the light of the world, and desired it, and forced his way inside, taking for himself a form similar to those of the valar – particularly that of Yavanna, whose creations he enjoyed the most, to the point where he had learned to manipulate them himself.

Hashirama was careful. He only drank in little bits of the light, and made sure no one knew it was him, and he didn’t only spend time in Aman. He also wondered the wilds of Arda, lit as it was now with the sun and moon, and it was in one of these forests, that would come to be called Nan Elmoth, that he made his home. The trees had whispered to him of the visitor, of a being that was _cool-trickling-water-deep-ocean-depths_, and he had gone to see what kind of person would trespass in his domain. Heading towards the river running through his forest, Hashirama pushed aside some hanging branches and stepped forward into the clearing – and stopped.

Ulmos’s child was dancing on the river, each footstep as light as air and landing without even a ripple, water flowing around him in streams as he spun and moved and laughed, eyes closed, to the music of his imagination. Hashirama stood, silent, not breathing, humanoid guise fading as he watched, enchanted.

Eventually, he had to get closer. He had only taken one step forward when, somehow, the forest betrayed him, a twig snapping under his foot and making the dancing man gasp and turn to face him, eyes open. Hashirama met those eyes, bright and ruby red, and fell.

And so the Lord of the Forest met his husband.


	2. The Meeting

Hashirama panics as the dancing man’s beautiful red eyes widen in shock at the sight of him, trying to bring his nature back under control so he doesn’t frighten the beauty away –

“What is that?” the stranger asks, curiosity in his face and voice as he walks closer, each gliding step falling on the river’s surface without even a ripple. Hashirama doesn’t pay attention to what the man moving does to his hips, and thighs – those _thighs_, all pale smooth skin and muscle and the slightest sway as the man, completely unselfconscious to his nakedness, steps off the river and onto the grass of the clearing. The lights of the tars above shine down on him, shadow and light intermingling to caress each curve and line, making his hair sparkle. Hashirama has never wanted to possess anything so much, even the light of the trees

“What is what?”

“Those shadowy things,” the man gestures, reaching out to where Hashirama’s branches had been, and waving through the air as though to see if they were just hidden from sight. His eyes are still alight with curiosity and wonder and guileless innocence, no shock or horror and fear at a strange man having watched him, or the mind-bending sight of the glimpse of Hashirama’s true self.

Hashirama smiles like an idiot, and blushes, heart beating fast as he throws his head back and laughs in abandon. “Those? Ah, those are a part of me. I usually keep them out of sight, but I slipped a bit. Sorry if they scared you –”

“They didn’t scare me.” The dancer interrupts, staring Hashirama in his eyes, and his smile falters and then comes back, somehow more real. “They didn’t?” He knows that the people of this place, this Arda – and Aman too, even the great Valar (even Madara, called Morgoth, the greatest of them and the man who Hashirama calls his closest friend, though he does wish the man would …ah, what’s the word? _Chill. _He wishes he would _chill_ a little, so Hashirama supposes that’s a bit hard when you’re made of darkness and fire and magma and rage.) don’t like the look of his true self, blanching before the sight of something that their deepest instincts screams is _other_, is _alien_, is _dangerous _\- and he is dangerous.

Even Madara, who can take all the other Valar on combined, acknowledges Hashirama is stronger than him. If he ever decided to do more then just sip on the light of those trees…

It’s a good thing he likes trees!

“Really?” he asks again, feeling oddly shy. The man nods calmly.

“They were interesting,” the man says. He really needs to learn his name.

Hashirama smiles wider. “I’m glad you think so! Not many people do. I’m Hashirama, by the way. What’s your name?”

“I don’t have one.”

Hashirama freezes comically. “Eh!?” he shouts, and the man winces, glaring at him. “You don’t have to be so loud!”

Hashirama laughs again. “Sorry, sorry – but really?” he asks, suddenly serious. “You don’t have a name?”

The man nods. “Aunt and Uncle said that my mother died giving birth to me, and father was so sad he couldn’t bare to look at me, so I just never got named.” He says it simply, causally, as if its nothing to fret or exclaim over – but there’s a trace of sadness in his eyes, the eyes of a child who never knew his parents.

Hashirama hesitates, suddenly shy. “Would you – would you like a name?” he asks, meeting the man’s gaze with his own suddenly more intense. This man – this light – he wants it. Desperately. The dancer cannot be allowed to leave. If he tried…well, if he tried, Hashirama would have to force him to stay, which would be sad, because then the man would be angry at him. But if he stayed willingly…

“Because I could give you one, if you like,” he offers, taking a step closer and daring to raise a hand and run it through those fluffy, silver-white locks. They’re soft as silk. “If you stayed here, with me – this forest is mine. It’s a dangerous world out there, after all. If you stayed with me, here, I could protect you, take care of you…love you, even.”

Those eyes widen, long white lashes fluttering, and the man’s composure is broken for the first time since Hashirama met him, looking away and blushing slightly. “Really?” he questions, voice small. Hashirama has never been more grateful to anyone then to his dancer’s father, and the man’s – Maia’s? His dancer has something of that feel around him – idiocy.

“Really.” Hashirama affirms, letting every inch of his sincerity ring through his eyes and expression as he takes another step closer. His dancer is tall, though not as tall as him, and raises his chin, marked as it is with on of three interesting red lines, so that he can keep eye contact. Hashirama can’t help but smile at that. Everything about his dancer makes him smile.

“Alright,” his dancer says, nodding his head as if to affirm his decision and closing the last remainder of the distance between them confidently, reaching out and entwining their fingers as Hashirama beams, giddy with joy, his happiness radiating out into the forest and setting the trees dancing in glee. “You said you had a name for me?” his dancer asks, peering at the trees with the same curiosity he’d peered at Hashirama’s branches, tone studiously neutral.

Hashirama grins at him, and cups his cheeks with his hand, stroking the soft skin with his thumb as he guides his new wife’s beautiful red eyes back to him. “I was thinking – Tobirama. Do you like it?”

That name will mark the newly named Tobirama forever as Hashirama’s, his equal and lover, the similarity of their names forever linking them together.

Tobirama mouths his new name, full lips silently caressing the syllables – and fuck but the things Hashirama wants to do to those lips – before smiling, and Hashirama is struck and falls in love all over again. He has a feeling that’s going to be happening often.

“Yes! Tobirama – my name is Tobirama!” He looks so happy and excited, Hashirama can’t help but scoop down and press a quick kiss to those lips, which Tobirama blinks up in surprise at him for, before scooping his dancer – his Tobirama – up in his arms to a squeak of surprise and turning to carry him into his castle in the heart of Nan Elmoth.

After all, in Arda, Hashirama has learned, it is traditional to carry one’s new bride over the threshold.


End file.
